Solomon pinched Janey Mack’s cheek as he passed. ‘Ah now, don’t lie, if there’s one gift God gave me it was the gift of beauty.’
‘Be careful ye don’t fall over and destroy yerself with the weight of yer big head. Sure, y’er as plain as a plank of wood.’
‘We all know that’s not true,’ Solomon grinned, his eyes glittering with boyish glee. He had a cracking story to sell, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to turn a decent shilling and a chance to maybe alter his own fortune.
‘Bye, girls,’ he chirruped. Then, turning to Merriment, he flicked his head to one side, signalling that he wanted to speak to her alone for a moment. They stepped into the shop.
‘I wanted to go up to my room. Leave my bag there. Have a quick shave.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Thank you.’
His mouth moved like he was about to say something else. Whatever it was, he shook it off, smiled, bowed slightly and went upstairs.
Merriment pulled back the shutters on both windows and flipped the sign on the door. Shop was open. She was heading to the back room when the bell tinkled behind her. A footman entered; his gloves were snow white, his livery especially fine, made of the most expensive red cloth and trimmed with gold braid. He held the door open for a stylish young lady dressed in mother-of-pearl grey silk. She wore a black ribbon around her neck and as she entered, her tall white wig decorated with pink bows listed a little to one side.
‘Good morning,’ the lady said, unfazed by Merriment’s breeches. It was then that Merriment realised that for the first time in years she’d forgotten to put on her holster. Her pistol was still upstairs.
‘Hello, m’am.’ Merriment bowed politely.
‘I believe you sell something I require.’ The lady moved towards the counter, her fine eyes gliding over the contents in the glass cases. Anne and Stella emerged from the back room with Janey Mack close behind. Both girls staggered to a halt, drinking in the exquisite gown the powdered lady was wearing.
‘Girls, don’t gawp,’ the young lady smiled. She was very pretty, with high cheekbones both flecked with the barest dab of rouge, her lips were tinged a soft berry red, and her eyebrows were shaped into gentle arches that rose and crinkled expressively.
Anne smoothed her gloves and shook her long locks back, her competitive streak believing that she could hold her own natural beauty up to scrutiny against a rich lady any day. She caught sight of the lady’s pink-trimmed shoes and all her confidence crumbled. The lady caught the gleam of envy emanating from Anne’s blue eyes.
‘Aren’t they darling? I picked them up in Paris.’
‘You wouldn’t want to wear them down Dame Street,’ Janey Mack piped up. ‘They’d be covered in shite in no time.’
The lady laughed with her whole body and Anne forgave her her riches and her fine garments because anyone who knew how to laugh like that had a sense of humour.
‘That’s why I have a sedan chair outside,’ the lady finally said.
‘They’ll be glad with your fare,’ Janey Mack told her. ‘I saw a woman fat as an ox getting into one on George’s Street. The poor carriers were buckled under the strain.’
‘Yes, I eat very little,’ the lady told Janey Mack. ‘I’m as light as a feather.’
Anne and Stella said goodbye. Merriment sent Janey Mack into the back room and politely shut the door. The lady dismissed the footman to wait outside with a discreet wave of her hand. Then turning to face Merriment, she quietly leaned forward and said, ‘I believe you sell Misses Phillips’ Engine.’
‘That’s right.’ Merriment nodded.
‘I will require twenty please,’ the lady said, drawing out a crisp five-pound note from her studded purse. ‘I want my girls to be clean and safe.’
Merriment didn’t blink.
‘I don’t have twenty, but I can get them for you.’
‘And you can give my girls the once-over?’
‘Of course.’
‘I don’t want them traipsing through your shop, gives the impression they are contaminated. Can I employ you to make a house call?’
The lady slipped a card across the countertop. In simple black copperplate it read: Margaret Leeson, 17 Henrietta Street.
‘You can call me Peg,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Can you come tomorrow evening, sometime around seven?’
Merriment said she could.
Peg smiled and stood a moment scrutinising Merriment’s face.
‘You know,’ she said, tilting her head to one side, her wig teetering a little from the movement, ‘Beresford did mention your remarkable eyes, but said nothing of your fine tresses or figure.’
The remark landed a two-pronged sting in Merriment’s heart; on the one hand, she was intrigued and hopeful about the fact that Beresford had spoken about her in a flattering way; on the other hand, there was something about Peg’s tone and glint of possessiveness in her eye that shot Merriment with a pang of jealousy.
Smiling broadly and slipping on a pair of cherry-coloured gloves, Peg waved her hands coquettishly and piped up, ‘Men, eh?’
Then, leaving Merriment with the vaguest sensation of having being ambushed, Peg flitted out the door calling to her footman to take her to the nearest confectionary shop, while Merriment stood a moment washed over by a sudden wave of loneliness. She sniffed wryly, faintly amused that when spoken by a woman Beresford’s name could still sting her.
7
The Keeper
Solomon had to pay five and two for the stall, despite Gloria’s recommendation. Jody Maguire chewed on a wedge of black tobacco and glared about him, patting his walking stick against his thigh.
‘It’s the best spot in the whole market.’
A long streak of black spittle darted from his mouth and landed with a splat near Solomon’s battered shoes.
‘But the average stall . . .’ Solomon didn’t put up a fight. Long years of card playing had furnished him with the ability to quickly assess a character. And Jody Maguire was not for turning.
‘Ye’re not asking for an average stall. If ye want the spot, ye’ll be charged for it.’
Jody Maguire rattled a glob of mucus at the back of his throat and noisily masticated.
‘Right.’ Solomon extended his hand to shake on the deal.
‘Two weeks up front.’
‘But . . .’
Solomon’s jaw dropped. He quickly snapped his expression into a fake smile covering up the fact that two weeks’ rent would clean him out. He’d spent a fortune at the printers, bought his licence, paid for lodgings and now this. If the market manager got a whiff of penury he’d walk away, give the spot to someone who could pay a steady rent.
‘Ten shillings four pence it is so.’
Solomon watched the silver and copper mix in Jody Maguire’s dark greedy palm. The market manager didn’t even nod; he just walked away, slipping the money into a satchel strapped across his wide chest. Solomon looked up at the statue of Satan. You better be worth it, he thought, folding out his stall and waving across to Gloria.
‘Morning, Solomon,’ she called brightly. ‘See yer keeping bad company.’
‘I’ve a cracking story,’ Solomon told her. But she was being asked for three pies, one with meat, so she wasn’t listening. Solomon folded out his stall. He lifted up the backboard and pinned several broadsheets to it. He weighed down others with stones and a bleached sheep’s skull he’d found kicked behind a gate.
‘Penny a sheet,’ he hollered. ‘Read all about it, Olocher is back from the grave. Haunting the Black Dog. One man has already been struck down by Olocher’s terrifying ghost. Come and buy a true account of everything that has happened. The prison guard who saw Olocher slit his own throat is now paralysed down one side of his body.’
A small crowd gathered.
‘What happened?’ a woman wanted to know.
‘Olocher’s back from the grave,’ Solomon grinned, jumping onto the base of the statue and clinging to Luicifer’s trident, using th
e prop to underpin his words.
‘The guard said Olocher is a demon now, half man half pig, made from the rotting flesh of Olocher’s autopsied corpse and the malignant substance of his evil spirit. The guard, his name is Boxty, suffered an apoplexy as a result of the encounter and christened the fearful apparition that attacked him “the Dolocher”. Look here, I have written word for word every gory detail, the horrible chronology of the gruesome events.’
And waving the broadsheet over the heads of the thickening crowd, Solomon broadcast in a clear, deep voice, ‘Here you have a vivid and clear description of all that befell last night in the Black Dog Prison. Ladies and gentlemen, “the Dolocher” is as true, as real as I am standing here. As solid and dark as this statue of the devil himself.’
The crowd surged.
Broadsheets flew off the stand and word spread through the market like wildfire. There was a demon stalking the corridors of the Black Dog Prison. By three o’clock, Solomon had sold the last sheet. He had to turn two women away.
‘They’re all gone,’ he said, cursing himself in his own mind. I should have printed up three thousand.
‘I came all the way from Oxmanstown,’ the woman with the squinting eye complained. Solomon could have kicked himself; the story had already travelled up as far as Smithfield.
‘Will ye have more tomorrow?’ the woman asked.
‘I will indeed.’
The two women walked away promising to return the next day for a sheet. Solomon folded up his stall. He realised he was hungry, when a young boy of about fourteen, who’d been leaning against a wall watching him, came forward.
‘Ye want another bit o’ news?’ the boy said, checking to see if the market manager was anywhere near. The boy had a pronounced cowlick to one side of his fringe. He was skinny and his legs looked malformed, like he’d a touch of rickets but not enough to make him completely bow-legged. Solomon glanced down at him.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked, upending his stall and leaving it balanced at Lucifer’s dark feet.
‘To do with yer story,’ the boy nodded.
‘Did Boxty die?’
The boy shrugged. ‘Dunno.’ He stuck his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘Just think ye’d be interested in events happenin’ right now down in the gaol.’
Solomon nodded quickly. ‘You banned from here?’
The boy sucked on his upper teeth.
‘Let’s just say me and the market manger have an arrangement. I insult him and he comes tearing after me. What can I say? I like to make the fat man run.’
The boy wiped his filthy nose with his grubby sleeve and grinned. He had a mouthful of crooked teeth.
‘There’s holy war over in the Black Dog, skin and hair flyin’.’
‘Come on.’ Solomon grabbed his carpet bag. It was weighed down with shillings and pennies. He swept his hand quickly over the young boy’s shoulder, leading him in the direction of Gloria’s stall.
‘Four pies, Gloria, two with meat.’
‘What a day ye’ve had, Solomon.’ Without waiting for Solomon’s response, Gloria fixed her bright eyes on the young boy and shook her head. ‘Corker, love, yer rootin’ for a hidin’. If Jody Maguire gets one whiff of ye he’ll chastise ye with his stick from one end of Castle Street to th’other.’
‘Have to catch me first.’ Corker winked.
‘Ye’re takin’ yer life in yer hands.’ She wrapped up four pies. ‘Here yez are. Two are on me, give us two pence.’ Gloria smiled, her apple-dumpling face full of joy. ‘I’d a smashin’ day on account of you.’ She waved a podgy finger at Solomon. ‘Terror makes people hungry and the more that went to yer stall the more stopped here, and sure, the smell of my buttery pastry would tempt Jesus Christ himself down off the cross.’
Solomon gave her a couple of pennies.
‘Yer a blessin’,’ Gloria said. ‘Keep the devil comin’ and the coppers rollin’ in.’
‘I’ll do my best, Gloria. I’ll do my best.’
Solomon gave Corker two pies and watched the boy wolf them down in ten seconds flat.
‘Dear God, give your mouth a taste of what your belly is enjoying.’
Corker belched, thumping his sternum with the heel of his hand. ‘Can’t ponder food in my gaff, otherwise someone will snatch it out of yer maw.’
They left the market just as it began to spit rain. A line of horses were stuck waiting while a funeral cortege tramped down Werburgh Street. Solomon thought about heading back to Merriment’s and taking a nap. Corker pointed to the side of Christ Church Cathedral.
‘Ye’ll want to go that way,’ he said. ‘Trust me.’
Why not, thought Solomon. They cut down Winetavern Street while Corker tried to negotiate a price.
‘It’s worth four pence.’
‘What is?’
‘The information.’
‘I’ll decide once I hear it.’
‘Two pence up front, for good faith.’
Solomon laughed.
‘A penny,’ he gave in.
Corker nodded. ‘And three pence once ye hear.’ He deftly slipped the penny into his jacket pocket.
‘Go on.’
‘The second guard is missin’.’
Solomon stopped in his tracks. That thrilled Corker, who smiled broadly, showing all his crooked teeth. He’d just earned the easiest four pennies in his whole life.
‘What do you mean?’ Solomon held half a pie close to his mouth ready to bite, waiting for the young boy to elaborate.
‘The other guard – the one that was with Boxty guarding Olocher the night he slit his own gullet – he’s gone missing. What’s his name? Martin something or other.’
‘Martin Coffey?’
‘Yeah.’
‘He’s done a runner,’ Solomon supposed and, shrugging, he took off down the road again. ‘Nothing damning in that,’ he said finishing off one pie and starting on another – this had cubes of salty bacon mixed in with mashed potatoes and was seasoned with fresh herbs. Gloria could cook.
‘Do the authorities think Martin murdered Olocher?’ he asked.
‘Nope.’ Corker shook his head, fairly certain. The young boy had brown eyes and was stabbing the inside of his lower lip with his tongue like he was keeping the choicest bit of information for last.
‘Not worth four pence,’ Solomon said, flinging a bit of crust to a stray dog.
Corker cocked his head to one side. ‘They carried out a big search, looking for this Martin fella up and down the building. They found his gun.’
Corker stopped walking, speaking for a moment to the back of Solomon’s head.
‘In the sentry box. His clothes were hanging off it. They say there’s signs of a big fight. Some of them think Martin What-do-yer-call-him is dead. Everyone’s saying he’s been devoured. The Dolocher has got him and eaten him up, bones an’ all.’
Solomon smirked and turned to look Corker straight in the face.
‘Where did you hear this?’
‘I hear things.’ Corker stabbed at the side of his head with his long wiry fingers and held out his hand. ‘Worth four pence, I’d say.’
Solomon was fetching four pence from his bag when Corker told him more.
‘The bigwigs were over this morning. Lord Beresford nearly laid an egg. He tore strips off the Keeper, said he was running a shoddy house, beating money out of the inmates and letting prisoners murder themselves with remorse. He said he was going to skin the Keeper alive for cocking things up. Livid, so he was. He tore the wig off his head and flung it at the wall, promising to rip the place down stone by stone and swearing he would get to the bottom of things one way or another. He wanted to interview Martin Coffey and anyone else who was on duty the night of Olocher’s death.’
‘And that’s when Martin Coffey’s gun and clothes were discovered?’
‘Ye hit the nail on the head.’
They were turning down Cooke Street when a horse and rider thundered past, driving Solomon and Corker into the hi
gh wall surrounding the Black Dog Prison.
‘That’s Beresford,’ Corker said.
‘In a hurry.’
Corker patted down his coat and torn shirt and shifted his shoulders.
‘Lost an eye in some naval battle.’
They stood at the gate of the Black Dog and looked up the steps. The rain fell in bright silver slants; the wind whistled in the wrought-iron castings holding the bowls of unlit pitch.
‘There’s the next part to yer story,’ Corker grinned. ‘Thanks for the shekels.’
He tugged a forelock and Solomon wondered if his split fringe had been formed by the habit of grinning irreverently and saying goodbye.
‘Are you not coming in?’ Solomon said.
‘Me and the Keeper don’t agree. Ye’d want to watch him, his name is Hawkins, he’d rob the eye out of yer head and murder ye for yer teeth and that’s on a good day.’
Corker sauntered away, calling back, ‘I’ll keep ye informed of any developments.’
‘You do that.’
Solomon pushed into the wind and up the steps.
There was a sombre battle taking place in the reception room when Solomon stepped in out of the rain. The door clicked behind him but the bullies leaning over the large rosewood desk only glanced at him a moment before resuming their business, while a weather-beaten warden smoked a long clay pipe and blinked back at them incredulously.
‘The Cut’s not happy,’ a bully as large as an oast house announced.
‘Sure, I’m not happy,’ the warden retorted, tamping down the tobacco in the bulb of his pipe. ‘And Martin Coffey is not happy either, what’s left of him, that is,’ he chuckled malevolently. ‘Don’t come in here, threatening me with the Cut.’ He grinned, exposing three brown teeth and the black edges of his gums. ‘I’ve me own worries to contend with. Me own boss—’ He bit off the last of the sentence and looked at Solomon.
The oast-house bully caressed the tip of a long blade shoved into a leather, patterned scabbard and by way of coercion grinned and muttered, ‘He’ll have to be given Martin’s share.’
‘Oh aye,’ the warden stoically nodded, lighting up his pipe with three thoughtful puffs. ‘Then ye’ll have to chat to the Keeper. Naught to do with me. Now young man.’ The old warden had seen his share of bullies and reprobates, and brushed the group aside with a weary wave of his hand to call Solomon forward. ‘What’s yer business?’
The Dolocher Page 11